


Veritas

by idler



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idler/pseuds/idler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kronstadt, May 31, 1812.</p><p>Through another's eyes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Another look at an incident from _Commodore Hornblower_ ; book!canon Bush
> 
> Originally posted for the letter V in [](http://lokei.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lokei.livejournal.com/)**lokei** 's William Bush Alphabet Soup ficathon

I shamed him. I shamed him, though the far greater shame is mine alone. He has, one hopes, forgotten the incident entirely. I, on the other hand, have not. I _must_ not.

My shame began as I ascended a miserable excuse for a ladder and boarded the English vessel with as much dignity as I could muster: as aide-de-camp to Alexander, Czar of all the Russias, I had the very highest of standards to uphold. I was, after all, my Czar’s chosen right hand, always by his side in ceremony or the battlefield. I had been with him at Austerlitz, at Friedland, in Tormeo and Tilsit, and the proof of my long and distinguished service clinked brightly on my breast. I must confess that I did not fully comprehend the purpose of my Czar’s insistence upon this naval excursion; his desire to do so was, however, quite enough.

I followed Alexander’s tall form through the entry port and was immediately assaulted by the odour: the clean scents of the sea, of salt and Stockholm tar, punctuated by an occasional—and far less agreeable—waft redolent of mildew and unwashed humanity. It was all I could do to remain expressionless and not permit my countenance to reveal my contempt for the proximity of my Czar to the filthy masses. But it must be endured, I realized, as unavoidable. It was clearly quite impossible to maintain a proper distance from them, here in these close quarters. Fortunately, it would not be for long.

We were received with what doubtless passed for great ceremony aboard this English vessel, with drums and pipes and a great row of uniformed marines saluting in perfect symmetry as a signal gun banged out its salute. It was impressive in its small way, though insignificant when compared with the glories and pageantry of the Imperial Russian Court.

However, when I turned to be presented to the commodore and his officers, I could scarcely maintain my careful façade of mild approbation. The commodore himself looked much as a proper officer ought: tall and slim, with aristocratic forehead and great refinement of feature. His naval uniform, adorned with ribbon and star, was impeccable and worn with grace. It was the man at his side—his flag captain, of all things—who presented such a challenge to my countenance. The man was a horror, an embarrassment. His uniform was equally precise, with snowy-white facings and brass buttons and epaulettes that glittered in the sunlight. He was properly tall but powerfully made, with a face so weathered it might have been carved from the timbers of this very ship. This crudeness of form might have been overlooked had I not been deeply shocked by the discovery that the man was no longer whole. One limb ended just below the knee, with polished wood a grotesque parody of flesh and blood.

I could not imagine that such a man was employed in public view. Had he been a Russian officer maimed in the service of the Czar, he would have been quietly retired to the countryside to live out his life in comfortable ease with a mistress—properly compensated, of course, for her attentions to a man diminished as this—upon his knee. The Imperial Service had no place for the disfigured.

This peasant in officer's dress bowed and saluted, and I was repelled but not surprised at the size and coarseness of his hand. I politely addressed him in French, Italian, and then German, but to no avail. Clearly he spoke none but his own barbarous tongue. He regarded me with a calm and unabashed blue gaze, obviously not sufficiently aware of his own shortcomings to recognize the depth of his disgrace.

The commodore nodded briefly to this wretched subordinate, and a few words passed between them. The flag captain turned away and began to bellow in quite deafening fashion--the man must have had lungs of brass. I watched, astonished, as the sailors waiting aloft sprang into action with orderly enthusiasm, their faces reflecting a good-humoured keenness to serve. The flag captain’s position was not a sinecure, then: he seemingly held a position of some responsibility, and despite his deficiencies managed to retain some measure of respect.

At the commodore’s behest, we soon left the deck and the flag captain behind, and embarked upon a brief tour of the vessel itself. Cramped and close, with an almost indescribable and disgusting stench, it was nearly unthinkable to conceive of officers living in such rude conditions. I could scarcely bear it, even knowing as I did that I soon would be free and breathing the pure air of the land once more.

I had anticipated luncheon to be a miserable affair. My Czar insisted upon speaking the commodore’s coarse tongue, instead of the more elegant French; thus, I knew I would be unable to follow their conversation and was instead relegated to observation alone. As we entered the commodore’s cabin, my interest was piqued by the presence of several British officers, including the loutish flag captain whom I had noticed earlier. I considered that perhaps observation would prove diverting after all, as the man was clearly ill at ease, doubtless discomfited by the proximity to his betters.

As we took our places at table, the commodore glanced at his captain, though the wordless message that passed between them spoke less of derision or subordination and more of a friendly regard. Surprising, and would bear watching, for what possible common ground could two such disparate men conceivably share?

The food, though plain, was unexpectedly pleasant despite the meal’s inauspicious beginning. The notion of animalcula residing in my bread was quite revolting, and the thought of consuming it was even more so. I found it entirely inexplicable that the British accepted the presence of these creatures as the normal state of affairs, and I thus inspected the pea soup with a great deal of suspicion. It proved uninhabited—and surprisingly pleasing—and I found myself consuming it with enthusiasm.

I watched as the captain carved the boiled salt beef, the cutlery ridiculously small in his large, coarse hands. Though the leathery substance proved an obvious challenge, his movements were deft and sure, and I found myself staring, strangely entranced by those battered hands: the hands of a peasant, and no gentleman.

As the meal progressed, the cabin servant placed a filled tumbler before me. Even as it sat upon the table could I detect the heady scent of it, sweet and pungent. The commodore rose and lifted his glass, and all at the table, Russian and British alike, followed suit to offer our toast to Alexander: _“Vive l’Empereur!”_ I drank as was the custom, then quickly drained my glass—I had never tasted the like—and freely permitted the commodore’s servant to replenish it.

I must confess that I lost count of the number of toasts and refilled tumblers that afternoon. I understood scarcely a word of the toasts or discourse, and thus I occupied myself with drink and, I fear, rum-induced reflection. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows and warmed the cabin, lighting it with a golden glow, and I suddenly wished to be nowhere else in the world but in company with such men as these: my Czar, and this distinguished commodore of the British Navy.

Alexander and the commodore were deep in conversation, and as they spoke I could recognize the occasional word, primarily place-names: Samana, Trafalgar, Rosas Bay, the Loire. The commodore’s voice was swelled with pride, and his eyes frequently turned to his flag captain with clear affection. The captain, for his part, flushed slightly but grinned, and made some comment in dismissive tones. This did not seem the proper behaviour of a man subject to the whims of a tyrant; in fact, I would scarcely venture to respond to my Czar in such a manner even if he were to address me so. Rather, it seemed the action of a friend and valued associate.

Strange, it was, that a man of humble form and lineage should rise to such a position as this, flag captain to a most celebrated commodore. Stranger still that he should retain it, given his obvious defects. Should the commodore fall in action, this man….this disfigured, common man…would assume command, and hold the squadron’s fate in his own large and rough-hewn hands. Could it be that his presence here did not speak of patronage or breeding, but instead reflected experience and trust?

Thus I watched him, toast after toast, glass after glass. I noticed the slight tightening of his features each time he rose and the damaged leg took his weight. I knew the look of pain well enough to recognize it for what it was. It seemed no longer grotesque: rather, an honorable price paid—not once, but daily.

I could only compare that badge of service with my own. I studied the bright array of medals upon my jacket, though their colors swam together even under my closest study. Yes, I had indeed been at each place and served in each campaign, yet I had done so at Alexander’s side, looking down on what seemed no more than lead soldiers in a child’s game, and had never known the blood, or fear, or stench of battle. I could not help but wonder if I would be equal to the challenge, or be as willing to make such a sacrifice.

I found my eyes drawn once more to the flag captain’s hands as he drank. Those hands possessed none of his commodore’s long-fingered elegance: the knuckles were misshapen and gnarled with rheumatism, with several of the fingers showing clear evidence of old fractures, badly set. Though mercifully clean, the skin was scarred, and marred by the blue-black stippling of embedded gunpowder. But I knew now that I had been gravely mistaken. They were not the hands of a peasant at all. They were the hands of a warrior who had earned his commodore’s—and his Navy’s—confidence.

I studied the dregs of rum that still remained in my glass, as if I could find understanding in their potent depths. These men did not serve in safety and opulence, far removed from the clamor of war. No, they willingly endured cannonball and gunfire, treacherous weather and poor food, crude quarters and the constant press of humanity, and still found comradeship, and honour, and service to be worth the cost.

A hazy movement at the head of the table interrupted my thoughts. To my profound regret, my Czar rose (though the cabin wavered alarmingly to my eye), indicating that our visit had come to a close. I drained my glass and joined the others as we filed from the cabin.

By chance I followed the flag captain’s broad back, and suddenly found myself wholly unable to take my leave of him with only the salute which formality required. There was so much I wished to convey, but I had no words, and as we emerged onto the quarterdeck my heart was too full to allow inaction. I could but fling my arm about him and pat his strong shoulders in a wholly inadequate attempt to express my regard and admiration for this man whom I had shamefully dismissed as unworthy only hours before.

Apparently the Navy’s way was much different from our own. The captain did not respond in kind, save for the unearthly shade of purple which immediately suffused his rugged countenance. It seemed, given his efforts to extricate himself from my grasp, that he found such display unwarranted; none could blame him, of course, as he remained fully unaware of the reversal he had wrought upon my emotions.

As I stepped unsteadily into the boat which would carry us to shore, I caught Alexander’s eye. My lingering sense of comfortable camaraderie vanished like mist under his glacial gaze: it held no respect, no friendship, no confidence. Only contempt for my excess. “You know _nothing_ of men such as these,” he snapped, and spoke no further to me that day or the next.

 _In vino veritas_ , the poets say. In wine there is truth. Perhaps, in Navy rum, there is vision. For I, aide de camp to the Czar of all the Russias...I, the man laden with useless trinkets and baubles, have seen with clarity at last. The true value of a man lies not in his parentage, nor in the gifts his country has bestowed upon him; rather, it lies in how much one man is willing to give.


End file.
